


Behind the Drawbridge

by MicrowavingMarshmallows



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Bisexual Clarke Griffin, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, Falling In Love, Flirting, Lesbian Lexa, POV Alternating, POV First Person, Relationship(s), Romance, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2018-12-02 04:23:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11501682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MicrowavingMarshmallows/pseuds/MicrowavingMarshmallows
Summary: So this is the story - the vomit-inducing change-the-channel cheesy-rom-com love story - written by yours truly, which I am posting on the internet to protest, well, something. I’m not really sure what, but I was feeling rebellious and if I do anything at home (in the castle) my mom will kill me (probably the Queen too – off with their heads and all that jazz). So, clichéd rebellion in the form of the written (or typed) word. Oh g-d, now I’m a cliché too. That might be the worst part of this whole thing.(NOT CANON - don't complain, you've been warned - if you want canon, read something else, there's plenty of other stories on this site)





	1. Backstory/Introduction/Preface/Whatever (Octavia)

**Author's Note:**

> This is just me getting what's in my head out onto paper (or a computer screen 'cause that's just how it is nowadays). I took basic character descriptions from the TV show, but fair warning, this is ABSOLUTELY NOT canon; I mostly just liked the names and didn't want to have to come up with my own. Sorry if that offends you. If it doesn't, hope you enjoy it and please let me know what you think (kindly though, behind this screen I am a real person with real feelings).

Okay, so there isn’t actually a drawbridge (I just thought it sounded cool and couldn’t come up with anything better). After all, this isn’t the Middle Ages. Although, if you were to hear the way some of the people behind the metaphorical drawbridge talk, it might as well be. Modern monarchy is an alliterative oxymoron. They may live in the 21st century, but their lifestyle hasn’t changed since the times of knights and dragons (well, besides electricity, the internet, and all that stuff). Arranged marriages – still a thing. Formal wear – a must at all times. Improper table manners – punishable by death. Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration (or not - let me tell you, when the Queen glares at you with her ice cold stare and the diamonds glinting around her neck in a way that makes you feel like they’re about to be choking the air out of yours, “off with their heads” doesn’t seem that far off). But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Let’s start at the beginning.

My name is Octavia. I am a “commoner”, thank g-d. Unfortunately for my dream of a drama-free life, I live in the castle. Yes, I did mean “the” castle. The stone building (that’s terrible to heat and would get really cold in the winter were it not for the tax money heating this place and the atmosphere – climate change is a real thing people) where the people who rule the country live. Although since neither I nor my mother are royalty, it would be more correct to say that we live to the side of and beneath the castle, in the servants’ quarters. My mother is the castle’s Housekeeper – a title I hate because she does the duties of a House Steward, but like I said, the castle’s stuck in the past and a woman can’t hold the title of a House Steward. Ugh, sexism. Anyways, she runs the daily life of the castle. She’s worked here all her life (her mother was the princess’ nurse so she grew up here too) and plans to do it until she hands the reins over to me (over my dead body). 

When I turn 18 I’m getting the h-ll out of here. In the castle, you’re either royalty or a servant. The royals are all backstabbing inbreds, and the servants are treated like sh-t. No way am I staying and taking over from my mother; without her the castle would crumble and yet the inbreds don’t give her the time of day. Well, that’s not fair. One of the inbreds isn’t quite as terrible (thanks to my grandmother the nurse of course). 

The princess was raised right (mostly because the ice b-tch Queen ignores her outside of public events and telling her what she’s done wrong). To make it clear, I’m not one of the screaming tweens who faint at the sight of the princess, it just, you know, gets lonely in a castle full of adults with “more important matters to deal with” and she’s about my age, and we hung out a bunch as kids. Well, whenever we got the chance since I went to a normal person school while she had private lessons with the finest tutors. 

That’s what I’m writing this for, by the way, my normal person school. My teacher’s the worst (and I’ve got to remember to edit this part out later – oh, and the swears too) and assigned us to write a story from our lives. Who wants to read that besides the creepy paparazzi and why does no one else think it’s gross that old men get paid to take pictures of little girls? I’m getting off track. Anyways, I decided to write about the sappy love story that I was forced to witness between my commoner best friend and the future ruler of the country. People seem to like that cr-p and I really need an A in this class. 

So this is the story - the vomit-inducing change-the-channel cheesy-rom-com love story - written by yours truly, which I am posting on the internet to protest, well, something. I’m not really sure what, but I was feeling rebellious and if I do anything at home (in the castle) my mom will kill me (probably the Queen too – off with their heads and all that jazz). So, clichéd rebellion in the form of the written (or typed) word. Oh g-d, now I’m a cliché too. That might be the worst part of this whole thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was short because it was just the introduction. If you liked it, let me know. If you didn't, let me know that too so I can make it better. If you have ideas for how the story should go, I'd like to hear that too. After all, why would I post it online if I didn't want to hear random people's opinions?


	2. Spiders And Suitors – If Only The Guards Would Dispose Of Both (Lexa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a spider on my wall. 
> 
> It’s probably the most normal thing in my life.
> 
> I’m not sure which is scarier.

There’s a spider on my wall. 

It’s probably the most normal thing in my life.

I’m not sure which is scarier. 

I’m Her Royal Highness Crown Princess Alexandria, but, unless you’re my mother, I use my royal privilege to demand a nickname. The people (I know it makes me sound pompous but I don’t know what else to call them) know me as Princess Lexa. Octavia asked me to write my side of the story. She said it was to get multiple perspectives and “find the truth” or something like that, but honestly, I think she’s just trying to get out of writing it herself. The perfect princess my mother wants me to be would have scolded her and thrown her out (after forcing her to curtsy of course) but I decided to help my friend. Seems like the more princess-y (is that a word? If it isn’t, I’ll make it a word – I am a princess after all and that better be good for something) thing to do. If it has the added bonus of angering my mother, well, that would be an unfortunate coincidence (or so she’ll be told). You’ll know better, of course, but you’re just a person sitting behind a computer screen, and, after all, there’s no real proof that I’m the actual person writing this. For all you know, I’m a fat, balding guy still living in his mother’s basement. I'm not, but what you should take away from this is: keep my secret and I'll tell you my story. 

There’s a spider on my wall and it’s probably the most normal thing in my life. The normalcy ends when I scream and two guards come rushing in swords aswingin’ (not really, nowadays they use guns but “swords aswingin’ has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?). I take a breath and reassure them there isn’t a (human) intruder, and alert them to the presence of the insect currently scaring me way more than it should. Evidence of the privileged lifestyle I’ve led I guess. Further evidence comes as the guards locate the spider and dispose of it. Normal people don’t have full-time ex-secret-government-spy bodyguards to get rid of the spiders on their walls. (That’s a shame though, I think everyone should have full-time ex-secret-government-spy bodyguards to get rid of the spiders on their walls.)

I realize that reading about the spider on my wall is probably not very entertaining, but I figured it would be a good way to introduce you to the insanity that is my over-privileged life. Of course, it’s not all perks, there’s responsibilities and pressures and all that, but I feel terrible complaining about it when there are people starving and dying of curable diseases but don’t have access to medicine. My struggles living in a castle with servants, the finest doctors, and a full-time kitchen staff are nothing in comparison. Life’s all about perspective, you know? 

The story you want to hear, the one about my “vomit-inducing” love story (is that what Octavia called it?), began the night of the annual gala. I’ve never been sure what this gala was for. As royals, my family throws a lot of “galas” and “charity dinners” and “other names for looking like philanthropists while wearing gowns and jewelry that cost more money than we’ll donate but that gets overlooked,” but they usually have a clear purpose. “Save the Turtles!” or “Feed the Hungry!” or some other three-word slogan with an exclamation point. But I’ve never been clear on the purpose of this particular gala. It’s always just been called “the annual gala,” and if I ask what it’s for, people look at me like I’m the ignorant, self-centered princess the paparazzi try to make me out to be. I’m not, and I don’t want people thinking I am, so I’ve just given up on figuring out who or what I’m saving or feeding by talking to tipsy, conceited, backstabbing, exorbitantly-wealthy people at the annual gala. 

As a princess, the afternoon before a gala is spent getting ready with my lady’s maid who is responsible for making me princess-y (totally a word). She dresses me in my gown, does my hair and makeup, helps me select my jewelry, all the stuff fairy tales are made of. Growing up with servants, modesty slips away fast, and being dressed by other people is not as weird as it sounds. (Okay it is weird, but it’s not like the rest of my life is normal, and like I said, it’s all about perspective). Every afternoon I’m forced to spend like that fuels my desire to be anything but a princess. Sometimes I wish I had been born a commoner. Although, if I had, I’d probably wish I’d been born a princess.

I arrived at the ball fashionably late, as is expected. Distracting myself with appetizers and champagne, I smiled and nodded at the polite conversation. The dinner bell was a welcome distraction from the monotony of the “it’s unseasonably warm this year”s and “he’s doing well, thanks for asking”s and “your necklace is divine”s. We moved to the Grand Dining Hall, stood politely, my mother entered, gave a speech, and let everybody sit down. We ate. The tables were cleared and we moved to the ballroom to dance. It was normal (well, my normal, not normal people’s normal) and I was functioning on minimal consciousness, letting my years of practice take the reins.

I was contemplating how much longer my mother would choose to stay (no one can leave until she does, a rule strictly enforced by the full-time ex-secret-government-spy bodyguards) when I saw the woman in question walk over to me with a young gentleman on her arm.

“Alexandria, I’d like to introduce you to Prince…

Okay, I’ll be honest, this happened a little while ago, and I can’t really remember what his name was, but for the purposes of this story we’ll call him Prince Perfect Hair since that’s what I do remember of him. I’ve never been very good with names. 

“Alexandria, I’d like to introduce you to Prince Perfect Hair of…” I didn't forget the rest of her introduction like I did his name. I honestly didn't hear the it because my mind was reeling, jolting me out of minimal consciousness to process this new information. It shouldn’t have come as so much of a shock. It certainly wasn’t the first time my mother had presented me with a gentleman suitor, someone who would become my future husband. Arranged marriages aren’t quite the same as they used to be, but I was still expected to choose one of the men on my mother’s “list of respectable suitors.” 

“…should dance. Doesn’t that sound lovely?”

“That does sound lovely Your Majesty,” Prince Perfect Hair replied, “Alexandria, would you care to dance?”

“Lexa,” I corrected. I think the afternoon spent fueling my desire not to become a princess had made me temporarily forget the manners supposed to accompany the role. 

“Alright then. Lexa, would you care to dance?” At least he was amenable and not another pompous “well-bred” stick-in-the-mud who wouldn’t know what to do with a newfangled idea like a nickname. (Seriously, you would not believe how many members of the aristocracy I’ve flustered by asking/commanding them to call me Lexa.)

“I would love to, but I’m afraid I must decline. I’m not feeling very well tonight; I don't think dancing's the best idea. Please excuse me.” Not a total lie. Faced with the man my mother wished me to wed, I was feeling quite sick.

“Oh, that’s terrible dear. Will you excuse me, Perfect Hair, I must attend to my daughter.” My mother subtly dug her nails into my skin as she (discretely) dragged me out of the ballroom. Once we were away from prying eyes, she spun around to glare at me.

“What do you think you are doing?” she hissed, “That was a perfectly respectable suitor and you were unspeakably rude to him.” Only in my mother’s world would “I’m afraid I must decline” be unspeakably rude. “You will go back in there and apologize at once, say you’re suddenly feeling much better, and that you would love to dance.” 

“No, mother. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

“What?” What? Had I seriously told my mother “no”? Even now I don’t know what I must’ve been thinking. Nobody tells my mother “no.” I’m almost entirely certain it’s written in the Constitution that nobody tells the Queen “no.” 

“I’m sorry mother, but I will not be dancing with him tonight, or any other night for that matter.” I swear, in that moment, something must have taken control of my body, because I had just told my mother no twice in a single conversation. 

Her glare sharpened, her grip on my arm tightened, but (luckily for me) being royalty means manners had been forced into her since birth, and so instead of screaming at me like she wanted to, she gave me a tight-lipped smile (we were still in a public area after all). 

“Very well then, I will tell his mother that there was no spark. Lord (again, can’t really remember his name but we’ll go with) Future Husband is visiting next week and you will see if he is more suited to be your future King.”

“No.” The years of stifled resentment and surrendering myself to my mother’s wishes were over. I finally had a backbone. 

“I am trying to be reasonable, but you are, as always, making everything difficult. You don’t like Prince Perfect Hair you won’t even meet Lord Future Husband. Alexandria, who would you like?” 

“I don’t know! I’m a teenager, I’m still figuring out who I am and who I like. But I can tell you it won’t be any of the male suitors in the list I know is on your desk.”

“Darling, you’re a princess. You don’t have to figure out who you are or who you like, that’s what the lists are for. And don’t be so close-minded. How do you know you won’t like any of the perfectly respectable suitors on the list?” 

I stared at her for a moment.

She stared back impatiently. 

I took a deep breath.

“I’m gay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inspiration for this chapter came from the spider that was on my wall while I was writing it and my desire for full-time ex-secret-government-spy bodyguards to hunt it down and get rid of it for me.


	3. Say No to Underage Drinking (You'll Find Love) ~ Lexa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why not? It’s not like this day can get much worse.” Famous last words. (Okay, so the night didn’t actually get much worse, it actually got a lot better, but I’ve always had a bit of a flair for the dramatic.)

“No, you’re not.” 

“Yes, I am.”

“But you’re a princess. You can’t be gay.”

“Well, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

Clearly, this was going nowhere. 

“Yes, I am, and you need to accept that.” Newfound backbone for the win.

“We’ll discuss this in the morning when you’re feeling more reasonable.” With that she was gone.

At least I could leave now.

\--

“Wouldn’t you be lesbian? Aren’t lesbians the girls and gays the guys?”

“I don’t know Octavia, figuring out the proper terminology wasn’t really at the top of my to-do list while I was ruining the Queen’s hopes and dreams of a perfect daughter.” 

“Jeez, no need to be so snarky about it. It was just a question.” 

“Yeah, sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you.” I really didn’t. Octavia was probably the closest thing I had to a best friend. I had fled to her room after leaving the gala. “I just…I need to get away from all…this.” 

Octavia suddenly smiled, with a glint in her eye that should have been a warning in of itself.

“I know the perfect way to escape.”

“What?” I asked suspiciously.

“There’s a party tonight. I’ll sneak you out and you can tag along.”

“Oh, no. I’ve heard the servants talking about the kinds of parties you go to. A picture of me at one of those would be a paparazzi’s wet dream. If being gay doesn’t give my mother a heart attack, those headlines would.”

“Relax, would you? We’ll dress you up in something not so, you know, you.” Should I have been offended at the way she looked me up and down as she said that? “Some makeup here, hairstyling there, no one will be able to tell you’re the boring, stick-in-the-mud Crown Princess.”

“Hey! I’m not boring.”

Her eyes looked me up and down as if to say, _really?_

“I’m not! Anyway, sneaking out in disguise to go to a party? That sounds like something that would happen in one of those rom-coms you pretend you hate but I’ve caught you watching too many times to be a coincidence.”

“Clearly too much time around your mother has made you senile.”

“You know that every time you try and deny it, it only makes it more obvious.”

“Whatever, do you want to sneak out or not?”

“Not.”

“What are you, scared? Afraid to be something your mother would disapprove of? Something other than a perfect pretty princess?”

“For the record, I know what you’re doing.”

“Is it working?”

“Maybe. Are you sure no one will be able to recognize me?”

“Princess, you’re forgetting that ‘the people’ (yes, she used air quotes) only see you in photographs of official events. If you wear something less like something you’d find in the closet of a 70-year-old woman, do something fun with your hair, wear makeup in a color other than beige, accessorize a little, no one will recognize you. Trust me. When have I ever let you down before?”

“Do you really want to go down that road?”

“Hey, the monkey thing was not my fault! If it hadn’t been for the delegation from the, uh, country that has a lot of monkeys, that never would have happened. Besides, it’s not healthy to hold onto the past. Move on, today’s a new day and all that. Let’s celebrate that new day and go out. Party a little.” She started dancing. 

“Is this the kind of dancing I’ll have to look forward to at this party?”

“Hey! Don’t mock my dancing! I’ll have you know, many a man has been drawn in by my dancing.”

“I don’t think it was your dancing that drew them in.”

“Woah, hold up ladies and gentlemen. Did Crown Princess Alexandria (she said with exaggeratedly sarcastic politeness) just make a joke? This is one for the record books. And, wait a minute, I heard a ‘look forward to.’ Does that mean you’re coming?”

“Why not? It’s not like this day can get much worse.” Famous last words. (Okay, so the night didn’t actually get much worse, it actually got a lot better, but I’ve always had a bit of a flair for the dramatic.) 

"Eee! This is going to be so much fun. Okay, let's start with your clothes..." 

\--

I fiddled with my bracelets as we approached the townhouse. I could hear the music and laughter coming from inside. I hesitated, suddenly unsure. Octavia noticed I had fallen behind and stopped, looking back at me with a huff. 

“Jeez, relax. The only way someone’s going to recognize you is if you keep looking like you have a crown on your head.” 

“Well, normally when I go to parties there is a crown on my head. Well, a tiara actually, I can’t wear a crown until I’m Queen. But, I don’t know. I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

“Look, I didn’t spend half an hour making you look less boring for you to wuss out on me when we’re literally ten feet away from the party. We’re going in. We’re going to mingle. And you’re going to have fun. I command it.”

“You command it?”

“Yep. Tonight, I’m in charge. Come on Princess.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me through the open doorway. We entered a room with dim lighting and loud music. Someone bumped into me.

It was the first time anyone had ever bumped into me. 

“Ooh, let’s get a drink,” Octavia said, weaving through the crowd before I could object. I had no choice but to follow. She ducked into a room that had a large bowl full of pink liquid on a table in the middle. Octavia took the ladle and scooped some of the liquid into a red cup. “Come on, have a drink. It’ll loosen you up a little.”

“No thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” She sipped her drink but was cut off when she noticed someone in another room. “Raven! Hey, I didn’t know you were coming!” She dodged through the crowd. I tried to follow but was blocked by some well-muscled guys. By the time I got around them, Octavia was gone. Less than two minutes and she had abandoned me. (I made sure to remind her of it the next time she asked when she’s ever let me down.) 

I didn’t know what to do, so I picked up one of the plastic red cups to fit in, but the memories of the news stories I had read about the consequences of underage drinking kept me from filling it with alcohol. Deciding my empty cup was suspicious, I made my way through a door I thought might lead to the kitchen (I was right), intending to fill the cup with water. It turned out to be one of the best decisions I’d ever made, because in the kitchen was the person who would become the other star in this “cheesy-rom-com love story.” Of course, I didn’t know that at the time.

I can remember every detail of what she looked like that night, but I know how clichéd that sounds and you probably don’t want to read about the way the light reflected off her golden hair or how the neckline of her shirt fell perfectly over her (give me a break, I was a horny teenager, so yes, that, or more precisely those, were what I noticed), but whenever I tell her what I remember from the night we met she makes fun of me, so I’m just going to say, she looked beautiful. Still does, by the way. 

Lost without my guide to the world of “the people” (i.e. Octavia), and flustered by her, um, neckline, the only thing I could come up with to say was “uh, excuse me.” Not my finest moment, I know, but given that the socialization I’d had growing up was either with snooty royals or Octavia, I think it wasn’t too bad. Thankfully, she was (and probably will ever be) more smooth than I could ever hope to be. 

She looked down at my empty cup and smiled.

“Looks like you have the same idea I did. Great minds really must think alike. There’s apple juice and lemonade in the fridge if you want something more interesting than water.”

“Um, thanks.” I gave her what I think might’ve been a smile (at least I’m hoping it was). I walked over to the fridge.

“So, how do you know Jasper?”

“Uh, who?” I swear, I am an intelligent person.

“Guess that answers my question. So, who dragged you along?”

“Um, Octavia?”

“You don’t sound so sure about that.”

“What? Oh, no, Octavia brought me.” She looked like she wanted to leave (and based on my conversation skills, I don’t really blame her) but I knew I didn’t want her to so I tried to remedy the situation. “Sorry, I don’t go to a lot of parties.”

“So I gathered. Don’t worry, I think it’s cute.”

“Um…”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“Oh, you didn’t.” She smiled. “I’m just, not very good at this whole party thing.”

She smiled again. “That’s okay, I can teach you. Let’s start with lesson one of basic party conversation. Don’t worry, it’s an easy one: names. Tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine,” she said with a smirk (and it wasn’t until months later that she explained what that phrase actually meant). 

“Um, I’m, uh, Alex.” It was the truth. (It was! I said I liked nicknames.)

“Nice to meet you Alex, I’m Clarke.” She held out her hand. I shook it, and the rest, as they say, is history.


	4. This is your assignment Octavia, you come up with a title.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When she said, “Clarke, that’s an interesting name,” my response was “oh you like that, you should hear my phone number.”
> 
> (Yes, I know I stole that from a Friends episode, but I dare you to come up with a better pick-up line.)

Lexa’s way too dramatic. Seriously, who says “the rest is history?” Nobody normal, that’s for sure. But I guess given her upbringing, it makes sense. I’m just glad the results of being raised by her crazy-ss mother are a flair for the dramatic and perfectionist tendencies, it could have been much worse. 

I figured the best place to start this story would be the day we met. Octavia had pressured me into coming to one of Jasper’s parties (his parents were out of town, again), which I guess is the reason I’m writing Octavia’s homework assignment, because I have her to thank for meeting the love of my life (if Lexa can be dramatic, I get to be a sappy romantic, deal with it). Jasper’s parties are notorious for underage drinking and the resulting stupid pictures that end up on Instagram the next day. Personally, I’ve never really liked the taste of alcohol, but I was sick of people telling me to “loosen up,” “live a little,” or “have one drink, it won’t kill you,” so I decided to fill a solo cup with something from the kitchen and pretend to get drunk so they would lay off my case.

I found some apple juice in the refrigerator and was about to rejoin the party when she came in through the doorway. Happy that I wasn’t the only one trying to escape the banality of underage drinking, I decided to strike up a conversation. If my decision was swayed by the fact that she was smokin’ hot, no one needs to know. 

It was immediately obvious she was shy, if not by her body language, then by the fact that she used “um” in nearly every sentence she spoke. But she wasn’t shy in the annoying, snobbish way. More of a cute Bambi-like thing – her head tilted slightly down, looking up at me with a shy smile. She was absolutely adorable (she hates it when I call her that, but whatever, it’s alliterative and teachers like that sh-t).

Anyways, our conversation at Jasper’s party that night made it to the point where she stopped using “um” to begin each sentence and began to loosen up a little. I even got her to laugh at one of my stupid corny jokes. That gave me the confidence that she liked me too so I moved to ask her out. Seriously, nobody laughs at “I’m so good at sleeping I could do it with my eyes closed,” without having a crush on the person saying it. So when she said, “Clarke, that’s an interesting name,” my response was “oh you like that, you should hear my phone number.”

(Yes, I know I stole that from a Friends episode, but I dare you to come up with a better pick-up line.)

She blushed shyly. My insecure teenaged self who covered up self-doubt with flippancy tried to backtrack with, “or not, it’s totally up to you,” but she said, “no, um, I’d love to go out with you. I mean, not that you were asking me out, but…uh…” 

I smiled. Seriously, her nervous blushing is adorable. “Relax, it’s cool. For the record, I was totally asking you out. How’s Friday after school?”

“Um, I don’t know. My schedule’s kind of complicated right now.”

“Don’t worry. How about I put my number in your phone and you can text me whenever you figure it out.” 

“Um, sure.” She unlocked her phone and gave it to me. 

“Aw, your wallpaper is adorable.” It really was. And yes, I realize how many time I’ve used adorable so far but it really is the perfect word to describe her and her wallpaper which was a picture of her, Octavia, and at least five puppies. If you can think of a better adjective to describe that image, then be my guest. I didn’t want to write this in the first place.

“Oh, uh, yeah.” Seriously, adorable.

Unfortunately for our budding romance, Octavia chose that moment to burst into the room, well on her way to being drunk, and collapse into Lexa’s arms. 

“There you are! What are you doing all the way back here?! I thought the point of you coming tonight was to stop being boring! Talking in the kitchen doesn’t sound like something that would scandalize your mother.” (Be thankful that you’re reading this instead of hearing it because it was spoken with the slurred, hiccup-interrupted speech of someone who wasn’t old enough to hold her liquor yet.)

Lexa turned to me. “I think I should get her home. But it was, uh, nice to meet you Clarke.” She tried to help Octavia into a more upright position but the position was too awkward.

“Here, let me help you with her. Least I can do for you agreeing to go out with me.” This seemed to rouse Octavia because she shrieked.

“Aah! Your first day as a lesbian and you already have a date!” She turned contemplative in the way only drunk and overtired people can, “maybe I should be a lesbian.”

“Yeah, Octavia, you should get right on that.” I pulled her arm over my shoulder and Lexa did the same. Together we managed to get Octavia through the crowd of dancing and making-out teenagers and into the backseat of her car. Lexa turned to me.

“I’ll, uh, text you.”

“I’ll look forward to it. See you later Alex.”

“Yeah, see you.” With that she turned and got into the car. As she drove away Jasper came up to me and pulled me back into the party. I rejoined the crowd of teenagers killing their brain cells with alcohol and music which was nothing more than a base line and some grunts. I thought about her for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to post another chapter. College doesn't really leave a lot of time for writing outside of papers. Also the reason why this chapter isn't very well edited. Sorry for any mistakes.


	5. Watch Out Cleopatra ~ Lexa

“GOOD MORNING!” I barged into Octavia's room the next morning and flicked on all the lights. She mumbled and tried to pull up the blankets to cover her head. I was still annoyed from having to lug her into bed the night before so I pulled it down and exclaimed, “WAKE UP SLEEPING BEAUTY!”

“Ugh, I hate you.”

“Hey, words! Now you’re starting to seem vaguely conscious. Step two is getting out of bed and splashing cold water on your face.”

“Yeah, that’s not happening.” She tried to pull the blankets back over herself.

“Either you get out of bed and splash the water on your face yourself, or I’m going to do it, and then your mom will ask why your pillowcase is soaking wet, and you’ll have to think of a way to explain it without telling your mom how you went out drinking last night and…” She hit me with a pillow.

“Why are you so mean to me?”

“It’s called tough love. And you’d much rather it be me than your mom in fifteen minutes asking why you aren’t upstairs at breakfast.” She grunted her reply. “Come on, get up. You have ten minutes to stop looking hungover.” I wrestled her into the bathroom, then went to sit on her bed. “I don’t hear the shower running…”

“I seriously don’t know why I put up with you,” is all I got in response, but a minute later I heard the shower running. While I waited for her to get ready to go to breakfast (no way was I brave enough to go without her) I pulled out my phone to do whatever it is teenagers do to kill time.

I looked at various social media sites (using an alias of course, no one could know the Crown Princess was addicted to Instagram) but found myself staring at the Clarke’s contact information that I had entered last night before I went to sleep. I was still looking at it with a goofy smile on my face when Octavia emerged in a towel. She instantly narrowed in on my face.

“What’s that on your face?”

“Elegant as always Octavia.”

“No, really, you look happy. It’s freaking me out.”

“You’re hungover.”

“Besides the point. Why are you making the face that I haven’t seen since we went to that rescue shelter and had puppies crawling all over us?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Yeah, I may be hungover, but there’s no way in h-ll I’m buying that.”

“Seriously, Octavia. It’s nothing. Get dressed, we have to be upstairs in five minutes.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m getting dressed. But I’m not going upstairs until you tell me what you’re looking at on your phone. And you’re too scared to go up without me, and I’m way less scared about the trouble that I’ll get into for not showing up than you are of the trouble that you will. So, you’ve got four minutes to spill it.”

Damn, she was right. “Okay, fine. I was looking at Clarke’s phone number.”

“Clarke? Why would you be goofily smiling at her phone number?” Then I could see the realization dawn. “Oh my g-d. You’ve been gay for one day and you already have a date with the hottest bi girl at Ark High?”

“I don’t have a date with her, she just gave me her phone number and said to text her when I was free and oh my g-d I just realized I have no idea how to do that.”

“Okay, first things first, you totally have a date with her. And I know you’re completely hopeless when it comes to normal people social interactions, but don’t worry, you have me to help you through it. Which I will do in exchange for you getting me through breakfast without my mom realizing I’m slightly hungover.”

“Of course I’ll get you through breakfast, I’m a good friend like that.”

“Hey! I don’t like the implication in the inflection.”

“But speaking of breakfast we have to go up now.”

We made our way up through the hallways and stairwells until we made it to the dining room. We sat at one end of the table with at least a dozen chairs between us and my mother’s chair at the head of the table (one of the few good things about living in an ostentatious castle). She wasn’t there yet, of course, the Queen waits for no one, we have to be there early to ensure that she never has to.

Octavia's mom came in a minute later and smiled at us. “Good morning girls.”

“Good morning Aurora.” “Morning Mom.” She sat down across from us.

“Are you feeling all right Octavia? You’re looking a little off.”

“Yeah Mom, I’m fine.”

Aurora looked suspicious, but luckily (for Octavia, not for me) my mother chose that moment to arrive.

When the Queen entered, we stood, curtsied, and sat back down after she gestured for us to. Normally this is the point where she ignores us in favor of her newspaper or tablet, but this morning both were suspiciously absent.

Instead she turned to face me. “Alexandria, since you so rudely turned down those perfectly nice suitors last night, I took it upon myself to invited (again having trouble remembering names so we’ll just call him) Price Fancy Name III to dinner tomorrow night. It will be a wonderful chance for you two to get to know each other. It’s well past time for you to be thinking of these things.”

“Mother, I turned down those ‘suitors’ last night because I’m not interested in men. As I told you last night, I’m gay.”

Aurora looked surprised at this. “Oh, are you dear. That’s wonderful.”

I attempted to smile at her. Instead of sharing the sentiment, my mother brushed off the comment. “Don’t be silly dear, of course you’re not…gay, you’re a Crown Princess.” She looked as if it physically pained her to say the words “gay” and “princess” in the same sentence. The thing is, I don’t think my mother’s homophobic, I really don’t. I think it’s just that she can’t fathom the idea of going against tradition, and tradition for a princess means marrying a man. Preferably, one with a title.

“I am gay. So I’m not interested in meeting Prince Fancy Name III or any other male suitor you introduce me to.”

“I wasn’t asking if you were interested Alexandria, I was informing you that tomorrow night we’ll be dining with Prince Fancy Name III and his parents, the King and Queen of (Some Small Country I’d Only Ever Heard of in Geography Lessons). It really would be wonderful if you two got on well. So, now that that’s settled, I must be off. I have a meeting with the Healthcare Minister.” With that, she left.

Watch out Cleopatra, my mother’s going to replace you as Queen of Denial.


End file.
